Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders (53 page)

A
fter the noon recess we had several examples of Kanarek in action. Arguing a search-and-seizure motion, he said that Manson’s arrest was illegal because “Mr. Caballero and Mr. Bugliosi conspired to have Miss Atkins make certain statements” and that “the District Attorney’s Office suborned the perjury.”

As ridiculous as this was, subornation of perjury is an extremely serious charge, and since Kanarek was making it in open court, in front of the press, I reacted accordingly.

B
UGLIOSI
“Your Honor, if Mr. Kanarek is going to have diarrhea of the mouth, I think he should make an offer of proof back in chambers. This man is totally irresponsible. I urgently request the Court we go back in chambers. God knows what this man is going to say next.”

T
HE
C
OURT
“Confine yourself to the argument, Mr. Kanarek.”

The argument, when Kanarek did eventually get around to making it, left even the other defense attorneys looking stunned. Kanarek stated that since “the warrant of arrest for the defendant Manson was based on illegally obtained and perjured testimony, therefore the seizure of the person of Mr. Manson was illegal. The person of Mr. Manson must, therefore, be suppressed from evidence.”

While I was wondering how you could suppress a person, Kanarek provided an answer: he asked that “that piece of physical evidence which is Mr. Manson’s physical body” not “be before the Court conceptually to be used in evidence.” Presumably, by Kanarek’s convoluted logic, witnesses shouldn’t even be allowed to identify Manson.

Older denied the motion.

Another aspect of Irving Kanarek was exhibited that day: a suspicious distrust that at times bordered on paranoia. The prosecution had told the Court that we would not introduce Susan Atkins’ grand jury testimony in the trial. One would think the introduction of this testimony—in which Susan stated that Charles Manson ordered the Tate-LaBianca murders—would have been the last thing Manson’s attorney would want in evidence. But Kanarek, suddenly wary, charged that if we weren’t using those statements, “they must be tainted in some way.”

Older recessed court for the weekend. The preliminaries were over. The trial would begin the following Monday—June 15, 1970.

Judge Charles Older’s court, Department 104, was located on the eighth floor of the Hall of Justice. As the first panel of sixty prospective jurors was escorted into the crowded courtroom, their expressions changed from boredom to curiosity. Then, as eyes alighted on the defendants, mouths dropped open in abrupt shock.

One man gasped, loud enough for those around him to hear, “
My God, it’s the Manson trial!
”

I
n chambers the chief topic was sequestration. Judge Older had decided that once jury selection was completed, the jurors would be locked up until the end of the trial—“to protect them from harassment and to prevent their being exposed to trial publicity.” Arrangements had already been made for them to occupy part of a floor at the Ambassador Hotel. Although spouses could visit on weekends, at their own expense, bailiffs would take all necessary precautions to see that the jury remained isolated from both outsiders and any news about the case. No one was sure how long this would be—estimates of the trial’s length ranged from three to six months and up—but obviously it would be severe hardship for those chosen.

S
TOVITZ
“Your Honor has—and I don’t say this in comedy—sentenced some felons for less than three months in custody.”

T
HE
C
OURT
“No doubt about it.”

F
ITZGERALD
“Not at the Ambassador, though.”

Although all the attorneys had some reservations about sequestration, only one strongly opposed it: Irving Kanarek. Since Kanarek had screamed the loudest about the taint of publicity adverse to his client, I concluded that Manson, not Kanarek, must have been behind the motion. And I had my own opinion as to why Charlie didn’t want the jury locked up.

Rumor had it that Judge Older himself had already received several threats. A secret memo he’d sent the sheriff, outlining courtroom security measures, ended with the following paragraph:

“The sheriff shall provide the trial judge with a driver-bodyguard, and security shall be provided at the trial judge’s residence on a 24-hour basis, until such time as all trial and post-trial proceedings have been concluded.”

T
welve names were drawn by lot. When the prospective jurors were seated in the jury box, Older explained that the sequestration could last “as much as six months.” Asked if any felt this would constitute undue hardship, eight of the twelve raised their hands.
*

Envisioning a mass exodus from the courtroom, Older was very strict when it came to excuses for cause. However, anyone who stated that he or she could not vote the death penalty under any circumstances was automatically excused, as was anyone who had read Susan Atkins’ confession. This was usually approached obliquely, the prospective juror being asked something like “Have you read where any defendant has made any type of incriminating statement or confession?” to which several answered on the order of “Yes, that thing in the L.A.
Times
.” Questioning on this and other issues dealing with pre-trial publicity was done individually and in chambers, to avoid contaminating the whole panel.

After Older finished the initial questioning, the attorneys began their individual voir dire (examination). I was disappointed in Fitzgerald, who led off. His questions were largely conversational, and quite often showed no sign of prior thought. For example: “Have you or any member of your family ever been the unfortunate victim of a homicide?” Fitzgerald asked this not once but twice, before one of his fellow lawyers nudged him and suggested that if the prospective juror was a homicide victim he wouldn’t be of much use on a jury.

Reiner was much better. It was obvious that he was doing his best to separate his client, Leslie Van Houten, from the other defendants. It was also obvious that in doing so he was incurring Manson’s wrath. Kanarek objected to Reiner’s questions almost as often as did the prosecution.

Shinn asked the first prospective juror only eleven questions, seven of which Older ruled improper. His entire voir dire, including objections and arguments, took only thirteen pages of transcript.

Kanarek began by reading a number of questions obviously written by Manson. This apparently didn’t satisfy Charlie, as he asked Older if he could ask the jurors “a few simple, tiny, childlike questions that are real to me in my reality.” Refused permission, Manson instructed Kanarek: “You will not say another word in court.”

Manson contended, Kanarek later told the Court, that he was already presumed guilty; therefore there was no need to question the jurors, since it didn’t matter who was selected.

To my amazement, Kanarek, usually a very independent sort, actually followed Manson’s instructions and declined to ask further questions.

L
awyers are not supposed to “educate” jurors during voir dire, but every lawyer worth his salt tries to predispose a jury to his side. For example, Reiner asked: “Have you read anything in the press, or heard anything on TV, to the effect that Charles Manson has a kind of ‘hypnotic power’ over the female defendants?” Obviously Reiner was less interested in the answer than in implanting this suggestion in the minds of the jurors. Similarly, walking the thin line between inquiry and instruction, I asked each juror: “Do you understand that the People only have the burden of proving a defendant guilty beyond a
reasonable
doubt; we do not have the burden of proving his guilt beyond
all
doubt—only a
reasonable
doubt?”

Initially, Older would not permit the attorneys to instruct the prospective jurors in the law. I had a number of heated discussions with him about this before he let us couch such questions in general terms. This was, I felt, an important victory. For example, I didn’t want to go through the whole trial only to have some juror decide, “We can’t convict Manson of the five Tate murders because he wasn’t there. He was back at Spahn Ranch.”

The heart of our case against Manson was the “vicarious liability” rule of conspiracy—each conspirator is criminally responsible for all the crimes committed by his co-conspirators if said crimes were committed to further the object of the conspiracy. This rule applies even if the conspirator was not present at the scene of the crime. For example: A, B, and C decide to rob a bank. A plans the robbery, B and C carry it out. Under the law, A, though he never entered the bank, is as responsible as B and C, I pointed out to the jury.

From the prosecution’s point of view, it was important that each juror understand such gut issues as reasonable doubt, conspiracy, motive, direct and circumstantial evidence, and the accomplice rule.

We hoped Judge Older would not declare Linda Kasabian an accomplice. But we were fairly sure he would,
*
in which case the defense would make much of the fact that no defendant can be convicted of any crime on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice. In researching the law, I found a California Supreme Court case,
People
vs.
Wayne,
in which the Court said only “slight” evidence was needed to constitute corroboration. After I brought this to Older’s attention, he permitted me to use the word “slight” in my questioning. This, too, I considered a significant victory.

Though Older had ascertained that each prospective juror could, if the evidence warranted it, vote a verdict of death, I went beyond this, asking each if he could conceive of circumstances wherein he would be willing to vote such a verdict against (1) a young person; (2) a female defendant; or (3) a particular defendant even though the evidence showed that he himself did not do any actual killing. Obviously I wanted to eliminate anyone who answered any of these questions negatively.

M
anson and the girls caused no disruptions during jury selection. In chambers during the individual voir dire, however, Manson would often stare at Judge Older for literally hours. I could only surmise that he had developed his incredible concentration while in prison. Older totally ignored him.

One day Manson tried it with me. I stared right back, holding his gaze until his hands started shaking. During the recess, I slid my chair over next to his and asked, “What are you trembling about, Charlie? Are you afraid of me?”

“Bugliosi,” he said, “you think I’m bad and I’m not.”

“I don’t think you’re all bad, Charlie. For instance, I understand you love animals.”

“Then you know I wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he said.

“Hitler loved animals too, Charlie. He had a dog named Blondie, and from what I’ve read, Adolf was very kind to Blondie.”

Usually a prosecutor and a defendant won’t exchange two words during an entire trial. But Manson was no ordinary defendant. And he loved to rap. In this, the first of many strange, often highly revealing conversations we had, Manson asked me why I thought he was behind these murders. “Because both Linda and Sadie told me you were,” I replied. “Now, Sadie doesn’t like me, Charlie, and she thinks you’re Jesus Christ. So why would she tell me this if it wasn’t true?”

“Sadie’s just a stupid little bitch,” Manson said. “You know, I only made love to her two or three times. After she had her baby and lost her shape, I couldn’t have cared less about her. That’s why she told that story, to get attention. I would never personally harm anyone.”

“Don’t give me that crap, Charlie, because I won’t buy it! What about Lotsapoppa? You put a bullet in his stomach.”

“Well, yeah, I shot that guy,” Manson admitted. “He was going to come up to Spahn Ranch and get all of us. That was kinda in self-defense.”

Manson was enough of a jailhouse lawyer to know that I couldn’t use anything he told me unless I’d first informed him of his constitutional rights. Yet this, and many subsequent admissions, surprised me. There was a strange sort of honesty about him. It was devious, it was never direct, but it was there. Whenever I pinned him down, he might evade, but not once in this, or the numerous other conversations we had, did he flatly deny that he had ordered the murders.

An innocent man protests his innocence. Instead, Manson played word games. If he took the stand and did this, I felt sure the jury would see through him.

Would Manson take the stand? The general consensus was that Manson’s prodigious ego, plus the opportunity to use the witness stand as a forum to expound his philosophy before the world press, would impel him to testify. But—though I had already put in many hours preparing my cross-examination—no one but Manson really knew what he would do.

Toward the end of the recess, I told him, “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Charlie, but it would be much more interesting if we did it with you on the stand. I have lots and lots of things I’m curious about.”

“For instance?”

“For instance,” I replied, “where in the world—Terminal Island, Haight-Ashbury, Spahn Ranch—did you get the crazy idea that other people don’t like to live?”

He didn’t answer. Then he began to smile. He’d been challenged. And knew it. Whether he’d decide to accept the challenge remained to be seen.

T
hough silent in court, Manson remained active behind the scenes.

On June 24, Patricia Krenwinkel interrupted Fitzgerald’s voir dire to ask that he be relieved as her attorney. “I have talked with him about the way I wish this to be handled right now, and he doesn’t do as I ask,” she told the Court. “He is to be my voice, which he is not…” Older denied her request.

Later the defense attorneys had a meeting with their clients. Fitzgerald, who had given up his Public Defender’s job to represent Krenwinkel, emerged with tears in his eyes. I felt very badly about this and, putting my arm around his shoulder, told him, “Paul, don’t let it get you down. She’ll probably keep you. And if she doesn’t, so what? They’re just a bunch of murderers.”

“They’re savages, ingrates,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Their only allegiance is to Manson.”

Fitzgerald didn’t tell me what had occurred during the meeting, but it wasn’t hard to guess. Directly, or through the girls, Manson had probably told the attorneys: Do it my way or you’re off the case. Fitzgerald and Reiner told Los Angeles
Times
reporter John Kendall that all the attorneys had been instructed to “remain silent” and not question prospective jurors.

When, the following day, Reiner disobeyed this order and continued his voir dire, Leslie Van Houten tried to fire him, repeating almost verbatim the words Krenwinkel had used. Older denied her request also.

What Reiner was going through could be gleaned from some of his questions. For example, he asked one prospective juror: “Even if it appears that Leslie Van Houten desired to stand or fall with the other defendants, could you nevertheless acquit her if the evidence against her was insufficient?”

O
n July 14 both the prosecution and the defense agreed to accept the jury. The twelve were then sworn. The jury consisted of seven men and five women, ranging in age from twenty-five to seventy-three, in occupation from an electronics technician to a mortician.
*

It was very much a mixed jury, neither side getting exactly what it wanted.

Almost automatically, the defense will challenge anyone connected with law enforcement. Yet Alva Dawson, the oldest member of the jury, had worked sixteen years as a deputy sheriff with LASO, while Walter Vitzelio had been a plant security guard for twenty years, and had a brother who was a deputy sheriff.

On the other hand, Herman Tubick, the mortician, and Mrs. Jean Roseland, a secretary with TWA, each had two daughters in approximately the same age group as the three female defendants.